"Well," Serafin said, preparing himself to tell the tale, "my master--the bard Vladimir, if you have ever heard of him--" Here a struggle with emotions upon saying that name flashed briefly across his face "--he used to tell this particular story during winter, when most people were indoors gathered around the fire. It is a tale about a maiden whose name was Anylia. She was a night elf as you are, milady, and she had stolen the heart of a man named Onzir. Her face was as..."
He began to describe Anylia in perfect detail, but he wasn't looking at her, and hadn't looked at her for some time. He was staring somewhere into the distance, as if he were very carefully examining a speck of dust in the far corner of the tavern, reciting from memory the tale of Onzir and Anylia, the thought brushing his mind that perhaps his master was Onzir and Anylia this woman, but he was not fully certain; only she could say that. But in the very least she brought back every memory of Vladimir that Serafin carried with him, and tenfold the pain of his loss.
When his tale was complete, he fell silent again, the lute laying still in his lap, its strings untouched for a very long time.
